


Kiss of Fire

by Crickette



Series: Take Another Shot [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst, BAMF Greg, BAMF Mycroft, Feels, Fluff, Frotting, I made Mycroft hot af, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Oral Sex, Shutter Release, Smut, So much porn I don't know how to tag it all, mentions of John and Sherlock, mystrade, porn with a little plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 19:55:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9340838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crickette/pseuds/Crickette
Summary: This is a lovely one-shot that bridges the gap from Shutter Release to its sequel Take Another Shot. Can be read as a stand alone.Greg doesn't like how Mycroft handles Sebastian Moran after his interrogation. Angst in the beginning, then smut and fluffy feels.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lmirandas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lmirandas/gifts).



> As always I must say a huge thank you to my wonderful Beta OT3. Kara who reads for characterization and finds every single thing that doesn't make sense. She's like a Goddess of Pose Flow. Lymphadei who reads because I beg her to, even thought we don't agree on commas. Lastly Morgan who takes a scalpel and helps me improve my story with each pass that it leaves me breathless. I love you three so much. 
> 
> The title comes from a tango called Kiss of Fire by Hugh Laurie. Yes. House has a few albums and this song is hot. 
> 
> This is a gift for lmirandas, who gifted me with her commission of fanart for Shutter Release. Seriously, it was absolutely amazing. Thank you so much also for the lovely friendship that has developed. I hope it continues to grow. Now here is the Mystrade I've been promising! Enjoy my dear!

 

 

 

Greg needed to walk. To shake the images of Moran screaming after Anthea as she walked out of the interrogation room, the usual mask of indifference set firmly on her face, from his head. The bastard’s bloody face was partially Greg’s fault for hitting him, but also a result of Anthea’s aggression. And his fight with John. His mind flashed to the picture of he and Mycroft at John’s show. Greg’s copper sense prickled; his husband was in danger. That made him feel like a wolf trapped in a small cage. 

 

It was unusual that Mycroft missed anything and yet he had seen the surprise flash in Mycroft's hazel eyes when he’d learned he had a mole working for him. The fact that  it was a trusted employee weighed heavily on Greg’s mind. He remembered hearing Mycroft talk about Constance when she first passed the background checks that Mycroft had in place. He had been grooming her to be another Anthea. Whoever was behind this was not the average spy or terrorist. 

 

The distance from Mycroft’s office to their home wasn’t that far and his body moved on autopilot. He took a deep breath of the mild spring air before pulling out his emergency pack of cigarettes and shaking it so one slipped out. 

 

The irony was not lost on him that he was ruining the light floral and exhaust scented air of London with his own bad habit. He lit the end of his stick and watched the end glow in the darkness. His skin itched, just under the surface. He wanted to hit something until it was destroyed, or drag Mycroft to bed and rut with him until neither of them could move. 

 

It was well onto 11 o’clock. The usual foot traffic was nonexistent at this hour. Occasionally, a taxi would pass him with a swish, making him look up. His body operated without much help from him, his mind still back in that interrogation room as he traversed the nearly empty London streets. 

 

He tossed what was left of his cig on the concrete and stepped on it. Then pocketed it. Mycroft would still know he’d smoked but Greg would pretend otherwise until called out on it. Greg looked around him, realising at once he had made it home. 

 

Warm light from inside covered the front steps. The cut glass inlaid on the front door made patterns that Greg usually ignored. He stood for a moment, the London chill seeping deeper into his jacket and trousers. The patterns caught his attention now, and he wondered if he had ever paid heed to the whirls and fleur de lis etched into the glass.  His eyes traced them for a moment, memorising their soft curves and dancing reflection. How fragile it looked. Yet it was bulletproof. 

 

Everything in his life came with a duality. 

 

Alluring but Cold. His  _ Mycroft _ . 

 

Inviting but impenetrable. His _ home _ . 

 

Greg sighed, his breath turning into white smoke and disappearing. The light shifted as Lawrence opened the door. 

 

“Sir, please do come in. The Tates will start rumours that Mr Holmes has thrown you out.” Lawrence was a tenth generation butler and had forgotten more about etiquette than Greg had ever learned in his whole life. 

 

Greg stomped up the steps to get feeling back into his cold legs. He shivered as the heat from the house hit his cheeks. 

 

“Wotcher, Larry?” Greg let his mouth curve into a small smile as the other man grimaced. 

 

“Mr Holmes called and informed me that he will be arriving via the garage in approximately fifteen minutes. He hopes that your mood has improved by the time he reaches your media room.” Lawrence paused and eyed him up and down. “Might I suggest freshening up a bit, Sir?” 

 

“It’s alright Lawrence, I’ll be in my man cave. Tell the Government I’m still pissed.” Greg felt the corner of his mouth tug up into half a smile when Lawrence flinched at the term. 

 

“Yes, Sir.” The old butler gave Greg a curt nod. 

 

Greg pulled his coat off and tossed it over the umbrellas that were neatly arranged on the stand by the front closet. Some gift from one of the many minions that kissed his husband's arse. Mycroft didn’t like anything out of order, but that was the point. 

 

His shoes made sharp sounds on the tile floor but were muffled to silence on the carpeted stairs. The house felt still and empty. His right hand ached from punching Moran in the limo and he felt grimy. His man cave was the first door at the top of the stairs. He sighed, feeling the damp London air weighing down his clothes. Greg's eyes flicked to the warm light spilling from his open bedroom door. He felt drawn to it, and he decided he wanted a hot shower after all. He wanted to wash the bullshit of the whole night off. 

 

Greg ignored the turned down bed and headed into the huge closet that housed all of Mycroft’s many three piece suits. His clothes took up only a few shelves and a set of drawers. Nothing in here felt like his tonight. 

 

He kicked off his shoes, not caring where they landed. His belt was next, pulled off and left discarded on the island beside a spare laptop and the large box of wristwatches. Automatic winders kept them perfectly on time. Greg pulled his black polo off and let it land where it liked. He pushed open the door to the bathroom and cursed under his breath. His robe and fresh towels had been laid out and the light for the heating system in the marble floor glowed. 

 

“Bloody psychic butler,” Greg muttered. 

 

He tossed his phone, wallet and change onto the counter. The assortment of coinage made plinking noises as they bounced on the marble top. He glanced around the huge room, which was bigger than his first three flats. 

 

A deep two person tub that Mycroft never used. Dark copper coloured tiling in the shower stall with its bench, multiple shower attachments and waterfall. Mycroft only used one shower head. Now that Greg lived here, he used the tub all the time and nights like this he used all the shower heads as well. He opened the clear glass door and twisted the water to hot. 

 

The sense of unease rushed upon him again, that even after ten years together he didn’t belong here. The feeling was thick and heavy as it settled into the pit of his stomach. 

 

Greg remembered the first night he slept over with Mycroft and how completely out of his depth he felt the morning after. It seemed like only yesterday he’d saved Sherlock from certain death as a murder suspect pummeled the newly rehabilitated young man like a rag doll. Greg channelled the leftover rage from his recent divorce into dragging the perp off and into handcuffs. He had driven Sherlock home that night and made sure he was comfortable. Upon leaving the dismal flat Sherlock called home at the time, Greg noticed the man in the three-piece suit standing nonchalantly in the yellow light of the streetlamp. 

 

Mycroft introduced himself and insisted on dinner. During the course of the meal, he had deduced everything and more that Sherlock had in the past. He offered Greg a huge sum of money to spy on his wayward little brother. Then, after some very expensive wine that Mycroft didn’t drink but insisted Greg enjoy, he snogged the elder Holmes messily in the back of the government's black sedan. Mycroft’s surprised gasp had spurred Greg on. 

 

Greg woke up the next morning to sheets that felt like heaven and the smooth, freckled back of Mycroft Holmes. Who was actually snoring slightly in such a cute way that Greg had choked on the giggle that almost escaped. The awkwardness had faded then. 

 

It had been so much work to convince Mycroft that he was truly everything Greg wanted, and every time he saw the golden glint of Mycroft’s wedding band he remembered the thrill of his proposal being answered with an enthusiastic yes. 

 

Steam filled the room, pulling him from his memories. He shut the door to keep it in. Greg thumbed the button of his trousers, the french fly caught and he gave it a sharp tug. The khakis slid down his legs and he let them drop. He had gone commando hoping for a much different outcome to the evening. He kicked the puddle of clothes away and pulled off his socks, carefully hopping so he didn’t slip. 

 

A stack of hand towels tumbled to the floor and were ignored. Greg had been steeping in cold rage since he left Mycroft's building. Never in a million years would he be alright with that interrogation. Worse, he was sure it was nothing new to Mycroft. Rationally, he knew that was a reality of his position, but it didn’t stop the bile from stinging his throat. 

 

He opened the door to the shower and stepped inside. The hot water stung his skin like tiny little needles. He grabbed his sponge, poured the posh stress relieving aromatherapy gel and took a deep breath of spearmint and eucalyptus as it scented the steam. He ran the sponge over his body on autopilot, dragging it over his right arm, the old faded heart with “Mum” written across it. He’d woken up with it the weekend after his mother's funeral. The tattoo on his other arm was much more whimsical. The elvish script for “There is some good in the world and it's worth fighting for.” 

 

Greg had loved the Lord of the Rings as a kid. He had that done when he got his promotion to DI. 

 

That sentiment was exactly why he was so angry. He scrubbed over the words with force, the tan skin turning pink. He washed the rest of his body quickly, wanting to get out before Mycroft got home. He turned on the waterfall and placed his hands on the dark tile in front of him, letting the cascade of water beat down on his neck and shoulders. Greg bowed his head and enjoyed the steam still holding the perfume of his body wash. The water was almost too hot, but it engulfed his body. The weight of it made a current of heat travel along his spine. This was a luxury he saved for the end of long cases, or exhausting trips across London chasing after his wayward brother in law. He stood still for another moment, then he turned it all off and stretched his heated muscles. 

 

“I almost want to install a camera in here just to capture the way your back muscles move when you use the waterfall faucet.” 

 

Greg closed his eyes as Mycroft’s voice carried over the trickling of water down the drain. 

 

“I’m surprised you don’t have every inch of your home under surveillance.” Greg pushed the door open and took the towel that Mycroft offered. 

 

Mycroft leant back against the sink. He wore only his pressed shirt, the top buttons undone. Even attempting to appear casual, Mycroft still looked too stiff. Greg did nothing to cover his nakedness. He dried off with quick, efficient movements. 

 

“Why would I have surveillance here? If I thought someone could see you like this, I’d…” Mycroft let the sentence drop off and covered it with a small fake laugh. Greg knew very well that his husband had a jealous, possessive streak. 

 

“Lawrence informed me that you are still tetchy? Whatever for?” 

 

Greg looked at him with narrowed eyes. 

 

“You know why.” He dropped his towel on the floor, not bothering to hang it up. Not caring that it annoyed Mycroft. In fact, he felt a pulse of joy at the annoyance that flashed through the other man's eyes. 

 

Greg stalked out of the bathroom into the mausoleum-sized closet and realised in that moment it did feel like a tomb. He yanked his favourite pair of NSY issue grey training sweats from the neat stack, watching them topple over. He pulled them on without bothering with pants. The mess he made earlier was already neatened. Anger that had been simmering all night threatened to flare up again. 

 

Greg watched Mycroft as he carefully removed his cufflinks, putting them into the small dish. 

 

“Do you wish to talk about it, Gregory, or do you want to sleep on the couch and ignore the whole thing? I have had a trying night. I plan to retire as soon as Anthea drops off some files.” 

 

Mycroft unbuttoned his shirt, the pristine white of his vest peeking out. Greg shook his head and looked away. 

 

“I’ll be in my man cave. I need a drink.” 

 

“Excellent. Pour me a scotch, please. Neat.” Mycroft pulled off his shirt and shook it out, the crisp lines still perfect. Greg never understood how he could do that. He wore a shirt for five bloody minutes and it was a rumpled mess. 

 

“You have a butler. Ask him to pour you a drink.” Greg ran his hand through his damp hair, letting it stick up however it wanted. Mycroft hummed with displeasure and Greg side stepped to stride around him. He skulked from the closet without a glance back. They were both stubborn men and a battle of petty barbs could last all night. 

 

As he drifted through their bedroom, he fought the urge to mess up the bed. The neatness conflicted so much with the churning chaos that felt caught behind his sternum. 

 

The door to his man cave was open, the lights all on. Music drifted from his sound system. It was Hugh Laurie,  _ Kiss of Fire _ . One of his favourites. 

 

He paused at the doorway. There on the dark stained wood coffee table sat a tray of sandwiches and the Lestrade family crest tea service that Simone got for them as a wedding gift. 

 

“Both of them are bloody mind reading bastards.” 

 

Greg’s stomach grumbled as he looked at the stack of sandwiches. He slipped behind the bar and picked two crystal tumblers from a row of them that cluttered the back bar. He grabbed the nearest scotch, the bottle had heft and he glanced at the label as he poured them both three fingers. It was Mycroft’s favourite Glen Mhor 1965 rare reserve. Hints of spice filled the space behind the bar and the unusual note of menthol. Not caring what Mycroft thought, he opened the small hidden mini fridge and grabbed for the small tray of ice. He dropped a few chips into his glass and took them both with him to the rich chocolate brown sofa. It was the only thing in this room he had any input on. 

 

“I had Lawrence prepare the curry egg salad that you like.” Mycroft stalked into the room swiftly and silently.

 

“Thanks.” Greg leant back, his back bare against the soft fabric of the couch. He could just melt into it. The tension in his legs and back started to ease finally. He took a sip of the whisky. The ice made a clinking noise. 

 

“You heathen. Ice in 50-year-old scotch.” Mycroft tsked. Greg closed his eyes and listened as his husband manoeuvred around the room. The thick pile of the carpet muffled Mycroft’s steps, but Greg heard the rustling of a newspaper followed by a soft click and then a slightly louder whoosh as he lit the gas fireplace. 

 

“You should put a shirt on. Anthea will be here momentarily.” 

 

“She could walk in on us fucking and give you an hourly report without looking up from her phone. I sincerely doubt she’s going to check out an old man with grey chest hair.” 

 

“I like your chest hair.” 

 

“I’m still angry, Choux.” He purposively used the very secret nickname, given on their honeymoon in Paris, to soften his tone. Greg had traced one of the sugary syrup dipped puffs across the contours of his new husband’s body. His tongue had followed closely behind. He was angry, they would need to hash this out, but he still absolutely adored the man. 

 

“Donovan has checked you out numerous times in my presence. I think you sell your attractiveness short.”  

 

“Sally? Yuck. She tried to start something after I left my ex. Did I ever tell you? It was the most awkward kiss in the history of kisses.” 

 

“What? She kissed you?”  Mycroft hissed. 

 

“Yeah. Snuck up on me in my office. Shagging her would be like taking a pit viper as a pet.” Greg opened his eyes and peeked at Mycroft. A dusting of pink across his cheeks made the few freckles that dared to mar his complexion stand out. His husband was seething. 

 

“Now settle down, Choux. It was a long time ago. She’s moved on to Anderson.” Greg snorted at the idea of those idiots and their grand love affair. 

 

He sat forward, putting his drink on the table, and picked up a half of sandwich. He took a large bite, savouring the burst of smoky curry flavour. Lawrence was brilliant at making the perfect curry egg salad. 

 

“Do you want one?”

 

Mycroft shook his head. There was a light tap on the door frame moments before Anthea strode in at her usual brisk pace. 

 

“Come in, Anthea.” Mycroft stood to meet the brunette. It had taken a while for Greg to get used to the ease with which Anthea worked with Mycroft. He wasn’t jealous at all; it just unnerved him. Anthea and Greg were the only people outside of their usual staff who saw Mycroft in his sleep attire of black satin pyjamas covered by a sapphire blue dressing gown. Greg set his sandwich down and leant back against the couch, stretching his arms so they lay across the back. 

 

“Evening, Anthea.” He nodded once. She looked towards him, her cunning blue eyes taking in the scene before her. She smirked and then her face went back to her default blank. 

 

She had changed into a black skirt with ridiculous heels. Her hair was a crown of curls pulled up from the nape of her neck. Her black pea-coat was buttoned up, topped with a tasteful Burberry scarf. She carried a brown paper parcel and a few folders. 

 

“Good evening Sir, Greg. I have your travel documents ready and the package.” She handed Mycroft the stack of coloured folders. She placed the larger item on the bar carefully. 

 

“Have you written up the contract for Doctor Watson? I feel he would be invaluable with this. I’ll deal with my brother and the details tomorrow.” Mycroft placed the red folder on top of the stack on the bar and started to carefully unwrap the package. 

 

“Yes, Sir. It’s all handled. Passport, IDs, all related paperwork.” She glanced at the object that Mycroft held and smiled a little. The smile softened her face, making her appear more girlish. “It’s a lovely picture, Sir. Doctor Watson has a bit of talent. Goodnight Sir, Greg.” She turned and left as quickly as she came. 

 

“What’s this about John?” Greg didn’t bother replying to Anthea. She was out the door and into a car before he could figure out what to say. It was just better to be silent and nod. 

 

“I’m asking him to accompany me for this issue.” 

 

“Why? Sherlock is going to bloody lose it.” Greg shifted on the couch so he was able to see Mycroft completely. 

 

His voice softened. “You couldn’t wait for John to give that to you?” 

 

Mycroft held the photograph that John had taken up for Greg to see. It was in a much better English oak frame. 

 

“I didn’t want to wait. I love how you look in this picture. This image is how I see you. I have this smile memorised, the way your lips stretch and how your eyes crease just so.” Mycroft’s thumb brushed across the glass as he held the picture. Greg could see the expression on Mycroft’s face change from open and loving to his inscrutable countenance that he wore outside of their home.

 

“Gregory, I have to handle this and John would help me greatly. My brother will get over it, and we’ll both be home in a few days.” Mycroft carefully laid the picture on top of the bar. 

 

“Mycroft, when I went into police work, it was because I believed in serving justice. What happened tonight was absolutely against that. You set that man up as a target.” Greg kept his voice low. 

 

“I thought we agreed we wouldn’t discuss work in our home.” Mycroft turned and squared his shoulders, his face a study of serious lines that Greg could never quite puzzle out. 

 

Compromise had been the foundation they built their life and marriage on. Both men were stubborn and had deep streaks of competitiveness. Unlike his first marriage, he knew that neither of them would give up at the first sign of trouble. It would be one of those nights that were rare for them, each of them stood on the knowledge they were right. More often than not, when they came to a disagreement, they would hash it out and one would concede to the other. The balance of power in their relationship was always fluid and changing. Apologetic Mycroft was a sweet and beautiful thing, it meant lots of snogging and having his body worshipped for hours. Victorious Mycroft was demanding and took what he wanted with the same exacting control he used for dismantling other governments. 

 

Greg felt stirring in his cock and knew tonight would not end in a terse compromise. It would be a Lestrade-Holmes clash of wills.

 

“Let’s go outside, yeah? We can have this talk in the back garden.” Greg smiled, he felt a surge of heat radiate from the base of his cock thrumming along the length of his shaft. 

 

There was no one that Greg enjoyed battling with more than Mycroft Arthur Basil Holmes. 

 

“Don’t be absurd, Gregory. Inside or outside I still can’t give you all the answers you want. You don’t have my security clearance.” Mycroft tittered, that well practice condescending laugh he usually saved for his brother. Or foreign diplomats. 

 

Greg stood swiftly and took the space between them in three steps. His shin hit the corner of the coffee table with a loud thunk but he didn’t bother to stop. The sharp pain in is shin made his temper flare up like a bonfire. He pinned Mycroft against the bar, hands on either side of him. He could feel the glossy finish and the slight texture of the wood grain under the pads of his fingers. 

 

“Don’t mistake me for one of your office yes men.” Greg dragged his nose along Mycroft’s smooth jaw, enjoying the way the muscles twitched. The expensive aftershave that his husband used filled his senses, Turkish amber with Indian sandalwood. Even when he stepped out of a shower Mycroft’s wet skin would carry hints of bergamot. He fought the urge to press his teeth into the soft skin under his lips. 

 

“We have dangerous jobs. I don’t tell you that you can’t go to work because some drugged out criminal might shoot you, just as soon as look at you.” Mycroft pushed Greg back as he hissed, “I will do what I have to keep my country and family secure. You would do no less.” Mycroft jabbed his finger into Greg’s chest lightly to drive home his point. 

 

Greg scoffed softly. 

 

“No, you must understand. What happened today, I didn’t like it either. Do you think terrorists play by the rules? They absolutely go outside of every rulebook there is and that is where they attack. Moran is part of a web, a very large web and the spider who resides there doesn’t concern himself with your rules.” Mycroft slammed his fist onto the bar. The sound of glass and bottles clinking against each other seemed loud. 

 

He stopped talking and pinched the bridge of his nose as he closed his eyes. His anger deflated visibly before Greg’s eyes. 

 

“You operate in strict confines of the law. I value your ethics and honesty because you are my compass.” Mycroft’s voice was raw and thick with emotion. 

 

Greg’s hand was on Mycroft’s neck before he realised he’d grabbed it. He pulled his husband close and kissed him savagely. He could taste the earthy peat of the scotch on Mycroft's lips and he pushed his tongue into his mouth seeking more. Mycroft moaned and wrapped his long arms around Greg, closing the distance between them. Greg felt his nipples harden as they smashed into satin of Mycroft’s dressing gown. He brought his hands to Mycroft's waist. The rush of lust was so overwhelming his hands felt dumb and the knot evaded him. 

 

“Fuck, I’m going to rip this off you if you don’t untie it.” His hands glided up the fine fabric and pulled it open, unbuttoning the black buttons. The urge to just tug them apart grew and finally he did it. The sound of the last three buttons hitting the bar made Greg purr. He bent to Mycroft’s small, rosy nipple and bit it. Then laved his tongue over it, giving it another sharp tongue with his teeth to tease him. 

 

Mycroft muttered something that sounded rough, picking at the knot of his dressing gown until it finally loosened and the satin slithered apart. Mycroft stripped the gown and shirt at the same time. Both landed in a soft pile on the floor, already forgotten by the meticulous man. 

 

“Did you just swear in Russian?” Greg looked up from the reddened nipple he was still abusing with teeth and tongue. 

 

“What? I don’t bloody know. Shut up. I’m pissed at you. Anthea’s eyes looked over your body for a full 9.8 seconds longer than usual. Also, you still work with that cow Donovan who dared kiss you.” Mycroft ran his right hand through Greg’s hair and jerked his head back. 

 

“We weren’t together, Choux.” Greg licked his lips. Mycroft’s eyes followed the movement and Greg watched as they dilated further. 

 

“You were already mine. You’ve always been mine, Gregory.” Mycroft moved as fast as a striking cobra and bit at Greg’s neck. 

 

“Christ, yeah, do that some more.” He could barely form the words, his already rock hard cock surged each time Mycroft bit down along his neck. Normally he would never leave a mark that could not be covered by a vest and pants. Evidently, that was not the case tonight.  

 

Mycroft’s left hand moved into the back of Greg’s sweatpants and grabbed his arse. His large hand cupped him and yanked him so they were pressed tight together. Their erections slotted against each other, straining in their clothes. Greg could feel the friction of his sweats glide smoothly over Mycroft’s satin pyjama bottoms. They both hissed loudly at the sensation. 

 

Mycroft let go of Greg’s arse and brought his hand up to Greg’s mouth, tracing his lips. He could smell the soap he used and the scent that was all Mycroft. 

 

“Open.” 

 

Greg obeyed and sucked on the long fingers as they invaded his mouth. He licked and traced between them with his tongue. Mycroft ground against Greg, smiling at him as he started to thrust his fingers in and out of Greg’s mouth. 

 

“Pull down our pants.” Mycroft’s prim voice had deepened and filled with lust. Greg could almost hear the smugness, that his husband thought he had won this battle. But Greg was holding back. He pushed down Mycroft’s pyjamas first, making sure they were just across his thighs. He shifted his weight so Mycroft had to step back, caged between Greg and the bar. Mycroft removed his fingers from Greg’s mouth and shoved them into the back of Greg’s sweats. Hot, moist fingers traced his arsehole and the tip of one rubbed around before dipping in slowly. 

 

The feeling of Mycroft’s hand made Greg rock forward. He let go of the bar and pushed the front of his sweats down so he could free his cock. He gripped both of them, the heat that radiated off of Mycroft made the hairs across his thighs prickle and raise. 

 

“Goddamn, nothing feels as good as your cock, My.” He used the leaking pre-come from his cock to stroke them both. “I love how even now, your cock is so neat and tidy. I want to mess it up, get it covered in my come and wreck you.” Greg leant forward and kissed the pleasured grunt from his husband's mouth. 

 

He let go of their cocks, as he moved his hands to Mycroft’s plump arse. He palmed both his cheeks and spread them as he frotted against him. Their hips found the right rhythm, grinding against each other. Mycroft was able to push his finger deeper into Greg, making his cock leak more and more pre-come. The wet friction drove Greg crazy and he squeezed Mycroft’s arse harder. He hoped he left fingertip bruises he could kiss tomorrow morning in the shower. 

 

Their mouths met again with urgent, breathless pants. They were both so close, arms around each other. Greg let his head fall back as his orgasm burst through him unexpectedly. 

 

“Mycroft.” He grunted it, once and then again. He chanted his lover’s name over and over as Mycroft reached between them and stroked his cock until he was spent. 

 

Greg went to his knees then and looked up, gave his best impish smirk as he appraised the debauched state of Mycroft’s lower stomach and russet pubic hair. Greg could see his come glistening on the rosy flesh of Mycroft’s shaft. He wanted to taste the skin right there. Wanted to savour the taste of Mycroft covered in his pleasure. 

 

He took Mycroft’s prick in his mouth deeply, sucking as hard as he could. Mycroft made a strangled noise of pleasure in the back of his throat and flexed his hips forward. Greg could feel Mycroft’s thighs trembling from holding back the urge to let go and fuck his mouth as hard as he could. 

 

Greg pulled back and let his tongue trace the vein on the underside of Mycroft’s cock. He used his hand to massage the base of Mycroft’s prick, enjoying the gasp that Mycroft gave as he let his fingertips brush across his pubes.  

 

He could taste the salty bitterness of himself all over Mycroft and that made his cock tingle as it attempted to grow firm again. Greg wanted Mycroft to always wear him, the fierce surge of possessiveness surprised him. He tilted his head back and gazed at his lover. Mycroft placed both his hands on either side of Greg’s face. 

 

“You have no idea how erotic you look right now, Gregory. Your lips shiny and your skin flushed. All mine.” The last word Mycroft said came out in a low growl. 

It sent a spike of heat up Greg’s spine and he smiled before taking Mycroft’s cock to the root. This time he held his mouth and swallowed around the smooth head. He rolled his eyes up and watched as Mycroft squeezed his eyes shut tightly, his mouth moving as he muttered a string of incoherent words. 

 

Mycroft gripped his cock and pulled back from Greg’s mouth. The motion surprised him and he exhaled a laugh as he watched Mycroft’s hand stroke his flushed, dark pink flesh. Two quick tugs and Mycroft climaxed all over Greg’s upturned face. He glorified in the lust that rushed over him as first one line and another of fluid painted Greg’s cheek and chin.

 

“Open your fucking mouth.” Mycroft panted. 

 

Greg opened his mouth and watched as Mycroft jerked his twitching cock and another spurt of come landed on his tongue. It instantly filled his mouth with the salty taste of Mycroft. Greg licked his lips and gave Mycroft’s cock a little kiss and lick before he sat back on his heels. 

 

“I don’t think I’ve heard you say fuck before.” Greg laughed and rubbed his face against Mycroft's pyjama bottoms. 

 

“Did you just wipe your face off on me?” 

 

“Yes. Help me up.” Greg held his hand out and Mycroft took it, pulling him to his feet. “I’m not as young as I used to be.” He closed his eyes and his head found Mycroft's shoulder. 

 

“Irrelevant. You’re magnificent.” Mycroft pressed a kiss to Greg’s temple. “Are we still upset with each other, or can we go to bed?” Greg turned his head and nipped at Mycroft’s ear. 

 

“So you and John will have to travel on this top secret mission. You’re going to leave me with your brother, who will be a complete sulking man-child. That is, of course, if he doesn’t sneak off and follow you.” Greg watched Mycroft's face. The small smile that sometimes appeared when Greg mentioned Sherlock to his brother was a mix of brotherly annoyance and protectiveness.  

 

“Maybe there will be a serial killer or something to keep him busy. It should only be a few days. John will pose as a war photographer. I’m going to have to do bloody leg work. That should tell you how serious I’m taking this. I’ll be John’s director. Anthea will be coming as our reporter. She’s a Kabal 20. Maybe it’ll work out and we’ll actually make BBC One.” Mycroft’s hazel eyes almost twinkled at his little joke. 

 

“You doing leg work. God save the Queen.” Greg shook his head. “Let’s go get cleaned up and go to bed. I am exhausted.” He pulled Mycroft’s pants up. “No posh pyjamas tonight. I want you naked.” 

 

“Yes, Gregory. You destroyed the shirt anyway.” Mycroft made a disgruntled noise. 

 

“As if you don’t have another ten pairs in that giant closet of yours.” 

 

“It’s ours. You know that, right? I know sometimes all this still overwhelms your middle-class upbringing, but it's  _ ours _ .”

 

“Yes, I know. Maybe I need to get a jukebox or something. Pool table? We could have fun on a pool table.” 

 

“Just as long as it's contained in the media room. You’re very  _ messy _ you know.” Mycroft pushed Greg towards the door. 

 

“Say’s the man who came all over my face.” Greg rolled his eyes. 

 

“You enjoyed it. I noticed your pupils dilated another twenty percent.” 

 

“Of course you did, Choux.” Greg smiled but shook his head in disbelief. 

 

He switched the lights off in his man cave as Mycroft pushed their door open. He kicked off his ruined bottoms and left them. Greg watched him, realising the mess they had left in the other room. That felt good to him, sometimes leaving messes that he would try to pick up before Larry in the morning. Of course, he would have to listen to him sigh dramatically over breakfast. 

 

Mycroft stood at the bathroom vanity totally naked. Freckles sprinkled across his shoulders and back. Greg loved to kiss each of them, but right now he just wanted to memorise the way Mycroft’s face was relaxed in the mirror. The steam from the sink swirled around him. 

 

“You’ll be careful on this trip?” He meant it to sound as a tease, but it came out serious. 

 

“Of course.” His eyes held Greg’s. “Nothing will stop me from coming home to you.  _ Nothing _ .” 

 

“Good.” The word felt dry in Greg’s mouth. He stepped forward and stood next to his husband dropping kisses to his favourite freckles on Mycroft’s shoulder. Mycroft usually only stood still long enough for him to kiss three, but tonight Greg was able to press his lips to five. He felt Mycroft move away from him and he turned the water on in his sink so he could wash his face. He gave his dishevelled appearance a once over and then a saucy wink when he knew that Mycroft was watching. 

 

“We’ll have to see Sherlock and Dr Watson tomorrow. We need to make this trip as soon as possible.” 

 

Greg nodded, water dripping down his chin and neck. Mycroft leant over him to turn off the tap and then offered him a hand towel. 

 

“Ta, Choux.” Greg dried his face. He felt the ghost of a kiss between his shoulders. He folded the towel neatly and laid it on the sink, knowing that Mycroft would notice it in the morning and find it amusing. He watched in the mirror as Mycroft walked nude into the main bedroom to check his phone for any messages.

 

The light from the bedside lamp gave his skin a warm glow, even though he was almost as pasty as choux dough. The chill Greg had worn into the house had left him completely. Now, the unknown was coming and he was scared of his inability to predict what it was. But as his husband turned to monitor him with characteristic (and completely pretend, in this instance) aloofness, he smiled at Mycroft. He knew that everything would turn out alright. 

 

No matter where Mycroft Holmes was, that is where Greg Lestrade would find his home. The rest of it was just details, and none of them mattered as much as what they had together. 

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
